The Christmas Story
The magic of Christmas is a powerful magic indeed. It transforms ordinary streets into fanciful avenues of multicolour lights, it inspires the tone-dead to join in merry carols, it can soften the heart of a Scrooge. Christmas magic reunited the scattered families, causes perfect strangers to greet one another and fills up the churches – and the magic continues to work season after season.
Miracles happen to only those that believe in them – at Christmas time people believe in miracles. The very atmosphere tingles with anticipation of wishes that might come true. At Christmas time we recapture some of the light-hearted faith of childhood when it was easy to believe in Santa driving his reindeer across the skies, when it was even possible to hear, if one listened closely, the faint jingle of his sleigh bells in that endless night of wishing for Christmas Day to dawn.
This is a time of anticipation; excitement builds as each new sign of Christmas appears. Store windows are decorated, spruce and fir trees make forests of parking lots, Salvation Army bands play carols on street corners, the community trees glow on the squares or on the village green. Schools begin rehearsal for Nativity Plays. In homes Christmas cards are addressed, parties planned, cookies decorated. As Christmas Day draws near it seems that everyone is waiting for something – for the snow to fall – for the arrival of the exciting annual packages from relatives far away – for the thrill of bringing home the Christmas tree and rediscovering in the attic or basement ornaments from Christmas past.
Now is the time when children reveal their impossible dreams and desires. Little girls are not afraid to wish for ponies and little boys dream of space ships that will really fly to the moon. Even sensible adults are caught up in the spirit of what might be. A vision of perfect family happiness is part of the season and they plunge willingly into all sorts of preparations and plans in order to give the priceless gift on Christmas Day.
The mystery and magic that surrounds Christmas Day is due in part of the many legends that have grown around his important celebration. If animals could talk on Christmas Eve and cows kneel down in their stall them might not another miraculous event take place?
So the sense of excitement grows until Christmas morning dawns, at last making clear what all the preparations and waiting meant. It is the birth of Christ which took place 2000 years ago but still happened in the hearts of men every Christmas of every year.
The age of miracles past? No, the age of miracles is forever here. Faith in miracles is the true magic of Christmas.
And now I would reminisce a little about when I was a child. Christmas in England began long before the 24th of December. About the middle of December the schools would close and then everyone was home for the holidays. It was always exciting preparing for the Big Day. My parents would take us to the West End of London to see the shops with all of the decorations and toys. We would pick out things we would like to have and make a wish list. Then came the wonderful trip – to Harrods Tea Room with the pink table clothes and Christmas decorations and Rum Babas for tea (It is still the same – I was back there last month). Every store tries to outdo the other in the Christmas Fairyland. I can remember one store that turned their entire basement into a Venice and the gondolas would take us to see Father Christmas who would pat on gently on the head and promise to visit us on Christmas Eve.
We made many presents in those days and with the help of my sisters I would make what I thought were exquisite gifts for my family and friends. About two weeks before Christmas we would help make the Christmas puddings. All our friends and neighbours would come in and stir, and make a wish and drink a little ginger wine.
The Sunday before was always devoted to collecting holly and other evergreens to deck the house. Then came Christmas Eve with every growing excitement in the air and the fat turkey was made ready for the oven the next day.
Although we longed to help decorate we were sent to bed early, and it was really more exciting knowing that in the morning the house would be transformed into Fairyland. Every picture and ornament had its own holly, its own wreath. Even the Drawing Room, entered only when on best behaviour and not too often, had a merry air as if it were celebrating Christmas.
Along the rail at the top of the stairs hung our stockings. I always borrowed my brother’s, it was yellow wool and very large. The stocking hung limp and lifeless but so soon changed into a treasure of good things. We could hear soft talk from downstairs and the merriment of last preparations then a hush and footsteps and scurrying – it must be Father Christmas – we dived down under our sheets.
On our honour we left our stockings untouched until five in the morning and then one brother slipped out to collect our treasures. The feel of a fat stocking—even today when I smell the oranges it brings back a nostalgic pang of a stocking swollen out of all reason by the contents. My stocking always had the last rose of the garden coming out of the top (I was the baby).
The smell – the indescribable smell of wool and orange. Such inexpensive contests but such jewels – a box of crayons, paints, books, pencils, tin trumpet, chocolate animals, pink sugar mice, one larger toy and always modelling clay which amused me hour after hour. So long ago, yet I can remember the complete happiness of those Christmas mornings as if it were yesterday. And there sitting in the hall was the big parcel from Aunt Nellie. She never failed us.
By this time breakfast would be ready and then off to Mass – the whole family – and the glow of Christmas in church with the Crib Scene, the choir singing, the altar boys swinging the incense: the joyous celebration of Christmas.
Back home we would all troop into the Drawing Room and there would be the tree draped in tinsel and beautiful ornaments and on the top the angel always for me (the youngest). Garlands of greenery were strung from corner to corner decorating the room, almost like a garden. Under the tree were stacks of gifts and toys were displayed with our names – dolls and trains and games – such excitement. My Father would then go to the piano and play carols and then strum his banjo with me on his knee. My mother and sisters would be preparing the feast which we ate around two o’clock: the big fat turkey, the beautiful white damask table cloth and then the pudding (my father always slipped a three penny piece in my portion, it was for luck) and the mince pies with their delicate pastry crust.
Then we would have a quiet time until five when all our relatives would arrive. More present changing including the opening of Aunti Nellie’s box. She was a spinster but always had such wonderful surprises. Then teatime came. The tea table decked with gay pull-crackers, the huge iced cake in the centre, jellies, fruit salad and all the things dear to children. Then the evening in the warm and cosy drawing room, which shed its solemn air: like Fairyland itself. We all had to perform – a poem, a recital on the piano, magic tricks: adults and children all did something. Then the games we played. How funny we thought the adults were. We played charades; we played a card game named PIT; we stuffed ourselves with sweets, nuts, dates and Oh that wonderful Turkish delight – a jellied square covered in powdered sugar.
Finally I staggered up to bed clutching the angel from the treetop – the one that had been put there especially for me. Another Christmas Day was over: never disappointing, always wonderful.
The next day was BOXING DAY – a day given to those who had served us through the year. The butcher, the baker, the milkman, the grocer, all in their best clothes would come calling. We waited upon them and gave them their Christmas boxes. It was an open house.
The week after Christmas was full of excitement still with pantomimes and circus and many Christmas parties. Every day was busy with family and friends.
I’ve tried with much tradition to carry on Christmas in the same way: more sophistication – the presents more expensive – the stereo playing instead of the piano. The stockings are opened together on our bed but there is still the same expectancy – the same wonder and the same glow. I can’t wait to see the wide-eyed look on our five-year-old grandchildren’s faces on Christmas morning. The pink sugar mice won’t be in the stockings but all the funny little things I collect all year will be there and the stockings will be swollen and heavy. Oranges will be in the toes and my eyes will be misty with memories of my Christmas childhood but thrilled with the tradition continuing of the peace, love and happiness of the Christmas miracle.
